When I was a kid I was always puzzled by the expression “you’ll live to regret this”. It’s the kind of curse reserved for mustachioed villains in aviator caps, which makes it odd enough, but the thought that I’d live to regret something always struck me as a non-threat. Regret didn’t seem like a real big problem to my six-year-old brain as I munched on my corn flakes — it was something typically lasting about five minutes after breaking a vase, whereas death was an infinitely more potent intimidator.

“So I’ll live to regret it? No killing or maiming? One day I’ll just look back and think ‘well damn, those were a regrettable bunch of circumstances’ and your vengeance will be had?”